Last Resort
by russianspy
Summary: The heavenly host has given up before the apocalypse has even started. They believe that Michael Langdon, the Antichrist, cannot be stopped. One angel thinks that there's still a chance to prevent the end of days. Michael can be made good. Obviously, it won't be any easier than lighting a lighter in a raging rain storm. Michael Langdon/OC
1. Chapter 1

The heavenly host has given up before the apocalypse has even started. They believe that Michael Langdon, the Antichrist, cannot be stopped. One angel thinks that there's still a chance to prevent the end of days. Michael can be made good. Obviously, it won't be any easier than lighting a lighter in a raging rain storm.

*This story will follow the show as closely as possible as long as details are relevant.

* * *

 **Four Years before the End of Times**

"Angela, Zachariah isn't taking appointments right now. Angela! Excuse me-you can _not_ enter his offi-" the secretary was screeching. Her voice echoed in the marble hallway, with its high ceilings and length. It stretched far to the elevators at the very end.

The secretary, a small mousy woman in a pale pink skirt-suit, failed to stop the other woman, Angela, from pushing her way through the double mahogany doors. Angela, who wore a dark gray pants-suit, strode right into the office, her heels clicking with enough authority to prevent the secretary from actually yanking her back. It also helped Angela that her legs were much longer and she was just too quick.

She crossed to the middle of the grand office and stopped on the large persian rug. The middle-aged man at the big desk had jerked in his chair with surprise. He had been hunched in front of his computer, looking intently at the screen. His computer had made a strange human-like noise before he abruptly cut off the sound. His face-it was flushed with a sheen of sweat on his receding hairline.

"What are you doing here?" Zachariah sputtered while hurriedly composing himself and fixing his suit. Most of his desk, also mahogany, hid his body from his stomach down, so Angela couldn't see what was making him shift in his chair, but she did raise an eyebrow at him.

"Esther, what is the meaning of this?" he barked, looking accusingly at his secretary, who cowered at the doorway behind Angela. "I said I was clearing my schedule for the rest of the day!"

The short woman looked frightened and waved her hands to placate him. "I'm so s-sorry sir, I just couldn't stop her. She barged righ-right in!"

Angela took a step toward the man, who was both of their superior, but she wasn't afraid of him. Zachariah looked far from put together like she was: His tie was loose, the top button of his collar unbuttoned, and although she couldn't see it, his shirt was also untucked. She stood rimrod straight, a thick file in her left hand. Her clothes didn't have a wrinkle in them, and her dark brown, wavy hair was carefully tucked to her right shoulder. Her equally brown eyes bore into his, which struggled to stay on her.

"I'd like to speak with you, sir. It's very important."

Zachariah yanked a tissue out of a box that was nearby and wiped his forehead. "I said I cleared my schedule!" he said again.

"I know, sir," Esther insisted.

Finally, the man looked at Angela. "I am _busy_."

Angela blinked slowly and briefly looked at his computer. His pink face looked guilty. "Yes I can see that…." she said at length. "But this is a grave matter sir."

Zachariah's hands moved quickly beneath the desk (tucking his shirt in) and then he was standing. "I don't care!" he said, mustering a little more authority. "Esther, escort Angela out."

Esther took a step toward the taller woman. "Angela," Esther tried cautiously, scrunching her small features.

Angela looked back at her over her shoulder and, steadfast, said, "Esther, please close the door."

Zachariah gripped the edge of his desk. "Esther, get her out!"

Angela's tone hardened. "This cannot wait, sir."

"Esther!" he snapped, veins bulging at his temples.

Angela wasted no time. "This is about Michael Langdon."

Esther gasped softly behind her. Zachariah sucked in a breath and exhaled it sharply. "Wh- _what_?"

Angela was stepping backward, but not to leave-to close the doors herself. It didn't take much strength to urge Esther out of the office, as the little woman stared at Angela in shock. Angela gave her a polite smile that didn't quite reach her dark gaze.

"Esther, please leave me and Zachariah," she said courteously. "The fate of the world depends on this."

"Hey!" Zachariah yelled.

Esther gave a small grunt, mouth open and eyes wide, and a shake of her head, and the doors shut before her. Angela smoothly turned around and strode back to Zachariah's desk with her folder. He was aghast. He started around his desk toward her. Angela put the file down with a pointed slap.

"Michael Langdon is above your level of clearance!" he said.

Angela didn't waver as he stopped before her, didn't back down from him. "That was before the budget was cut and we let go half of the employees," she retorted.

Zachariah got close to her face, short of actually touching her. She was as tall as him in her heels. "I don't care," he said, seething. His voice got low and shook. His face was becoming red. "Michael Langdon is no longer a concern of the department."

Angela didn't move a millimeter. "I know you still have pull with our superiors," she said levelly.

"Things have changed."

"I heard about the meeting you had with them. I heard that they're giving up already!" Her eyebrows narrowed as she'd said this-giving way to her disbelief.

Zachariah shrugged his shoulders as he dabbed again at his forehead with the crumpled up tissue still in his hand. "That's the decision that was made." It had been final.

Angela shook her head. "We can't give up."

He sighed and looked away at the file she'd brought. He didn't touch it. "It's called picking our battles, Angela." She could sense his resignation, and it fueled her resolve even more. She clenched her fists at her sides, searching his face.

"This is the _only_ battle," she countered.

Stepping away, Zachariah tossed the tissue in a small trash can and glance back at her, pointing at himself. " _I_ still want to have my wings by the end of this."

Angela blinked rapidly, incredulous. She leaned a hand on the edge of the desk, trying to catch his eyes again as his gaze ducked away. "What's the point of still having wings? So you can admire the flames of hell as they cover the burning _earth_?"

He had jumped slightly at the question. His previous frustration was gone. It seemed like he wanted to avoid this argument too. "Better humans than us," he said.

She watched as he crossed the office to a small wet bar where he proceeded to fill himself a glass of amber colored liquid. For several moments, she was speechless, the clinking of ice the only sound in the room.

"I can't believe you're saying this right now," she said at last.

He took a much-needed, noisy sip and turned around to face her again. "Look, Angela, I know you've always supported the original mission, but...God's gone, and honestly, our superiors would rather change course. And I agree. We're all gonna ditching this fucking popsicle stand."

Angela raised and dropped her hands. As she stared down at the file, a gloom came over her. "I can't believe everyone has lost faith."

Zachariah's face was grave while he regarded her. "Yeah, and you know what? When we still had faith, we had to be chaste, obedient little servants. Now, we have a little freedom our _selves_." He took another drink. "We have an opportunity to do things we've missed out on for over two millennia." He drained the glass, poured another one, and went on.

"Why don't you, I don't _know..._ enjoy yourself for a little while, till they all nuke themselves to death. Live a little in the meantime. It honestly won't hurt you, I promise." He even gave her a small, knowing smile.

But Angela scoffed at the suggestion as she straightened and crossed her arms over her chest, incredulous at his nonchalance. "What, like you? Masturbating to porn?" Her eyes flicked to his computer.

The man's expression vanished as he followed her gaze. He downright scowled, had nothing to say to being called out.

Angela shifted her weight to one hip. "It's no secret around here. Everyone knows what you do in your spare time. Big surprise that you cleared your schedule for the whole day. I wish the others weren't too busy indulging in their own sick fantasies."

Bristling under her scrutiny, Zachariah cleared his throat and pursed his lips. "And? So what?"

"We're like the Russians during the '90s," Angela said sadly. She put her hand on her forehead.

The man drank more, a glaze appearing in his eyes by now. "Look. We're not killing anyone," he said touchily.

"Just your dignities," she muttered, eyes closed.

"Come on..." Zachariah said in a tone, which suggested that he was going to try to convince her otherwise. In fact, he turned back around to fill a second glass.

Hearing him, Angela looked back at him and approached with new zeal. "We're the heavenly host! We haven't been relieved of our duty yet! We have to fight until the end!"

Zachariah held out the new glass and said, "Our department is going to shut down soon, Angela, and we're going to pack our bags. The apocalypse is nigh, and we already lost." He held the drink midair. She didn't take it, as if not noticing it, or ignoring it.

She took him by the arm, instead, earnest. "Michael Langdon _can_ be stopped. Sure the chance is small, but we have to take it. We can't let it slip away. We don't have much time."

The man's face was deadpan, his voice turning flat. "No one is going to support you on this. You wanna go get yourself killed, knock yourself out. But you're going to be on your own."

Angela swallowed, faltering, their eyes locked. What he said was the truth. She doubted anyone would back her up on this. She hadn't actually thought Zachariah would go for it when she barged into his office. She just knew that she had to speak her mind, knew that she couldn't simply crawl into a hole and wait for it to all be over. No one else would have the guts to do anything. Most of everyone in the department-what remained of it-either felt the same way Zachariah did, resigned, or were too scared to do anything, thumbs up their asses.

She felt fear. She wasn't foolishly confident. She knew the risks, the dangers, that the odds would be against her. Yet courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. Many great humans were long dead. Nelson Mandela one of them. Though many more still lived. She couldn't let the chance to save them slip away, even if catching that chance was going to feel like using tweezers to grab the end of a thread that was fluttering in high winds.

She had nothing to lose. She really didn't. If she died in the name of the cause, then at least she'd go out in action, fighting the good fight. She would've done all she could, which was more than could be said for the rest of them.

Zachariah shoved the glass into her, she quickly took her hand back from his arm, looking down at the whiskey owlishly. She had to grab the glass before he let go. Some of it splashed on her shoe.

"If I have to go alone, I'll go alone," she said, her jaw clenched. Instead of drinking it, while he drank his, she stepped back over to his desk and took the file again. She replaced it with the whiskey.

Zachariah looked at her ruefully. "At least have a drink before you get on the highway to hell on earth," he said wryly.

"No thank you. Goodbye, Zachariah," she said to him.

He walked over to pick up her glass while knocking back the rest of his. She touched him again on the arm and sighed, frowning. He too let out a huff, genuinely feeling sorry for her and patting her on the shoulder.

"Maybe you can at least get laid while you're there."

Her expression turned stony and she stepped away. "If God saw you now, Zachariah," she scolded.

He spread his hands, holding both of the glasses. "He would strike me down. But, alas, he got the fuck out of dodge a while ago. Asshole just didn't give enough of a shit to bring his firstborns."

Angela grimaced at his words, but she didn't say anything else. She started for the door and her boss went back around his desk to his computer, sitting down with the second glass of whiskey. He woke up his screen and it went from black to a paused video of a woman in an angel's outfit (what was left of it: the halo and wings) and another woman, who had on nothing but a pair of devil horns. They were sixty-nining.

He waited until the doors to his office were shut and stared at them for a full minute before resuming his previous task.

Angela bid Esther farewell as she passed her own desk in the hallway. Esther was anxious in her seat and even stood up.

"Wh-where are you going?" the small woman asked, unable to help it.

Angela stopped to look back. "To earth," she said evenly, having adopted a staunch posture once again. There was no time to waste.

Esther shook her head frantically. "Oh my God. Be careful out there."

There was a hint of a smile on Angela's face. She knew Esther's concern was genuine. "I will. Thank you, Esther."

"If I don't see you again, I just...I just wanted to tell you that...I always-uh," blushing oddly, Esther looked down, "I always liked you. I...wish we had the chance…to…"

Angela had no idea what she was talking about. She waited for Esther to finish whatever she was going to say. But instead of doing so, the short woman ran around her desk, heels clacking, and reached up to the other woman's face once she got to her, taking her by the cheeks to give her a kiss on the lips. Angela all but froze and Esther's mouth moved over hers for a good solid four seconds.

When the women parted, Angela took a step back, gaze wide as saucers and the breath in her lungs stalled. Esther was breathing rapidly, on the other hand, her own face red and a slow, relieved smile splitting her face.

"Uh…" Angela had no idea what to say. Angels didn't kiss other angels. At least, that was how it always had been. Times were different now...clearly. Before anything else untoward happened, Angela spun back around. She called out a quick, final goodbye and didn't look back all the way to the elevators.

Esther stood, watching her, and her smile turned upside down. The sound of Angela's quick strides receded down the long hall.

Once she got to the elevators, she jabbed the button down on the panel and impatiently waited for the lift to arrive. Behind her, on the marble wall hung large letters that said _Department of Spiritual Protection._ Dust covered the once shiny metal surfaces. Angela's mouth still burned with the fervor of the secretary's kiss by the time she was traveling down the floors. She had pressed the very last button of what looked like a hundred buttons total on the left side of the metal door, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Trying to suppress the mortification she felt-thankfully no one was there to see what had happened-she opened the folder. She'd already, literally, read it over a million times. She had it memorized by now, word for word. Nothing beat actually looking at the contents, though.

There was a small picture of Michael Langdon on the top left corner of the first page, followed by an entire profile, which spanned twenty pages, back to back. But the first page had his basic stats, such as: Age (which gave a birth date that should've had him as a child; instead, he looked like a man in his mid to late twenties); his approximate height and weight and coloring; but most importantly, for species, the file had him as _HELLSPAWN_ in all caps.

Everyone in the department had already been calling him the Antichrist. Ever since his extracurricular activities had become known and Constance Langdon, his grandmother, had committed suicide in the infamous Los Angeles house. The department hadn't touched the Murder House with a ten-foot pole. It wasn't their territory-even before a house had even stood there.

There were damned locations all over the world, just as there were holy places. Both sides had been fingering the earth since it was created, the great tug-of-war. Unfortunately, the side of the light hadn't expected the devil's sneaky plan of using one of said damned spots to make his hellspawn. They were expecting an antichrist to rise-they just hadn't known when he or she would. Heaven hadn't been prepared enough in advance to send their own savior to be born. The angels had long been slacking since God left. He'd vanished sometime after Christ ascended.

Not all angels liked humans. In fact, many strongly disliked them. Angela, however, always felt that urge to protect them, to be what God had always wanted her to be. She was one of the few that still gave a rat's ass about the original mission. She didn't have her name in the book of Revelations, but the bible was a loose series of stories anyway. She felt it in her gut that she was doing the right thing.

The elevator stopped on a floor and a pair, a man and a woman in business attire, walked in, both giving Angela nods in greeting. The man pressed a button that was rows before her destination.

"Going to the ground?" he asked with surprise.

"Running an errand," Angela said smoothly.

"Oh, fun," said the woman.

Angela answered only after a beat, looking straight ahead, not at them. "A troubled boy needs to be nudged on the righteous path."

The man couldn't help but snort. "Good luck with that."

The woman hit lightly him with her elbow.

Shifting marginally, holding the folder before her, all Angela said was, "Thank you."

She needed all the luck in the world.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _I had this idea stuck since I first laid my eyes on Michael. Hopefully, I'm the first with this concept of angels and whatnot. I still have my other story, Devils in the Windy City, but I suppose it's on hiatus again. My muse is just not there, yet I can't completely give it up. I hope to continue it later sometime._

 _In the meantime, I had to satisfy this muse. I imagined Angela as Troian Bellisario, but you can imagine her as any brunette with dark eyes. For a few chapters, it'll be pre-Apocalypse, and then I will skip to present day._

 _Next chapter, we will see Michael with Ms. Mead and how Angela will make her approach._

 _If you enjoyed it so far, let me know! Feedback is extremely helpful and lets me know if I should continue. Favs are great too!_

 _Thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Present Day**

Four figures walked through the toxic fog. Three of them wore black, and the one at the back of the procession wore white. None had the protective equipment or gas masks usually required to withstand the vile atmosphere. They didn't seem to need it. The gates before them opened with wordless magic and they strode toward the stone structure ahead, its shape muted in the gray wind.

Cordelia Goode led the women. The last time she was there, the world around them wasn't apocalyptic. The California desert had stretched for miles around and the sun beat down, bright and hot. Now, the sun was hidden behind a nuclear winter that was permanent. The four didn't waste time.

They made their way through the circular maze and down the elevator, below ground, which hid what was left of the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men. The air down there was thick with an earthy scent and glowed dimly with torches and candles. It was quiet and full of emptiness-morbid death-for somewhere inside all of its residents lay poisoned.

As the four stepped into the octogonal hall, its center fire roared.

Cordelia's fists were clenched at her sides. "Find our sisters," she ordered. Madison Montgomery and Myrtle Snow set out at once to do so.

Angela looked up at the second floor. Cordelia glanced at her over her shoulder. "I'll find him," the angel said. Cordelia didn't need to tell her to be careful.

Angela left the supreme witch, making her way upstairs. Her long white coat dragged behind her through the halls, the hem stained by the filth from outside. The rest of her attire was pristine-the tall neck of her collar was propped beneath her long brown hair; the long lapels were adorned with half a dozen, large pearly buttons on both sides. Under the coat, she wore an equally white, ruffled shirt; slacks and knee-high boots. She looked like a lieutenant a part of Cordelia's army.

There were many rooms, many doors. Angela sensed him, following his energy like it was a heat pattern that she could see through the walls. His power was impossible to ignore. It radiated through the stone. It grew hotter as she navigated the second floor.

Inside his room, Ms. Mead was helping Michael into a new dinner jacket. They were having a warm heart-to-heart. The woman was overcome with relief from the fact that her true purpose was finally revealed to her.

"For the first time, I feel like I know my place in the world," she confessed to Michael, who was smiling at her. "By your side."

Instead of answering, however, the man looked away and his smile vanished unexpectedly. Something was wrong.

"What is it?" Ms. Mead asked.

There was a tiny flicker of alarm in his bright blue gaze. "A powerful presence."

"What do you mean? Everyone is dead."

Michael began to turn around to face the door. He sensed someone on the other side of it. Ms. Mead took out her gun, which she had replaced inside her coat. He silently raised a hand to stall her.

Soon, the door opened of its own accord. There on the other side of the threshold stood the angel, and her gaze met Michael's.

He spoke first, his breath hitching the slightest. "Angela." She was the last person he had expected.

"Michael." Only her voice betrayed the emotion she felt. Her expression was grave as she walked through the door.

Ms. Mead raised the gun, her own gaze darkening. "I recognize her."

"You knew her," he reminded, not taking his eyes off of the intruder.

Angela looked at Ms. Mead, her face not changing. Ms. Mead's finger moved to the trigger as her programmed memories came to the surface. She drew her brows together. "I remember her...as the cashier girl at the grocery store… I wanted to use her as a sacrifice for Black Mass. You...you took a liking to her."

"Yes, I did," Michael answered softly. "Put the gun down, Ms. Mead. It won't do any good."

"No, it won't," Angela agreed.

Obediently, Ms. Mead did put down the gun. If she was the original Mead, she would've looked reluctant and protested.

All three stood in place, not moving. Angela looked Michael over, studying him. He changed. He looked older, more mature. And she too was different. He took her in more slowly, head to feet, for he was seeing her for the first time in a long time.

"How did you find me?"

"The witches," she said. "They're downstairs."

Ms. Mead looked quickly to the doorway. She tightened her grip on the gun beside her. Michael also looked into the hallway.

His jaw clenched. "You're here...with _Cordelia Goode_?"

"Yes, Michael. But I came to find you first. We need to speak." Angela took a step toward him. "Please."

Something bristled beneath Michael's demeanor. She remained in his way. If she were anyone else, he would've easily flung her into the wall, but even as his hand twitched, he knew he couldn't. It wouldn't work on her. She wasn't human. Ms. Mead looked back and forth between them, wondering what he was going to do.

"Michael, let us talk before a fight begins," Angela said urgently.

He cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. "You won't be able to stop it," he said matter-of-factly.

"I know," she said, sounding resigned already.

He raised an eyebrow and looked down at Ms. Mead, who was still expecting his next command. "Wait outside for me. Do not go anywhere."

And like the machine that she was, Mead pocketed her gun and stepped around Angela, closing the door behind her. Watching Angela, Michael stepped backward. She looked past him at the body on the floor. Ms. Venable stopped bleeding out, but the puddle around her shone in the warm candlelight. Angela's face turned grimmer.

A hint of a smirk found its way onto Michael's expression. He was waiting for the angel to comment on the body, but she didn't. She just stared at it sadly. He walked around the bed, putting his hands behind his back.

"You look regal," he told her, to her surprise. The observation sounded like a compliment veiled by the disdain.

She tore her eyes off of Ms. Venable. "I was promoted."

"Ah." He studied her again, trying to pinpoint what exactly made her look different.

Under his scrutiny, she stood on the other side of the bed. The air was tense between them. "I'm an archangel now," she clarified when he couldn't find the answer. His eyebrows both raised.

"Well, I'm honored to be in your presence then," he said, full of mockery. He even gave a small chuckle.

Angela's voice turned dry. "I'm not here to boast."

"Why are you here then?" he said curiously.

"To talk," she repeated.

Michael looked at her, a little incredulous. "We're not friends."

"We used to be," she reminded levelly.

He didn't answer, glaring.

She took a step toward him. "We used to be more than that."

"Is that what you think?" he retorted. If she wasn't mistaken, she heard the trace of hurt beneath his words.

Angela remained composed-under the circumstance. "It's what I _know_." The truth she spoke made him flinch marginally. He too stepped toward her, stopping at the end of the bed, and his demeanor cracked. They had four feet between them.

"What you know is the half-truth about a boy, who was deceived by someone he trusted, someone who lied to him, someone who he once sought comfort in."

"The comfort wasn't false," she replied readily. "I simply couldn't tell you who I really was."

His gaze darkened. "A lie is a lie, Angela."

Now, she frowned. Guilt practically radiated off of her. Her shoulders slumped, even. "I wish I didn't have to lie, believe me."

"You had sought me out to stop me-when you found me with Ms. Mead."

She shook her head slowly. "Yes, but not to kill you, Michael."

He sneered at her. Her gentle tone of voice made him shudder beneath the elegant clothes he wore. "You couldn't even if you tried." In that moment, he sounded like a petulant boy.

Again, she didn't argue with him, though. "I don't want to kill you even now," she said instead, evenly, deliberately, so that he believed her.

His gaze flitted back to the door. "Do those witches know that?"

Angela looked down at the marble floor between them. It mutely shone with their reflections. Michael regarded her, and she kept her eyes averted from him this time. They glittered. He couldn't read her mind like he could read that of the humans'. He couldn't understand why she was there. If she was with the witches, why had she come to him in the form of this parlay?

"They don't need to know," she said at last.

He took in a sharp breath, forced to come to his own conclusions the traditional way.

"Tell me, how were you promoted if you had a soft spot for me?" Her dark eyes shot back up to his pale ones. The question had struck something in her. He noticed. "How do you still have your wings if you care for me?" She didn't answer him. Her silence did that for her. She stood stock-still, her own facade splintering.

He went on, his expression easing as the light was shed. "You still _do_ care, don't you? If you didn't, you wouldn't be here. Unless...you didn't tell the others like you. Or if you _did_ , they didn't give a shit because they were abandoning this world anyway."

Angela clenched her jaw. She looked almost too human with her glassy eyes-they were watering. "I'm the only one who didn't give up," she said steadfastly.

Michael blinked with surprise. "On me?"

"Yes," was all she said.

Michael's laugh echoed in the room. It was full of amusement and jarring. "Well, aren't you the good little soldier. Even with God long gone, you fight the good fight. There's no one left to save, Angela." He spread his arms. "The world is being rebuilt as we speak. Do you think you can stop the machine?"

"No," she admitted. "As I've said, I'm here because of you."

He stared at her for a beat. "Do you know how human you sound?" he asked her rhetorically.

"You're half human," she said. He exhaled pointedly.

"So you're here to appeal to that side of me, are you?"

She was determined, shifting and moving closer to him. He watched her guardedly and stiffened in place. "I did before, didn't I?" she said. "But now you're different, Michael, so I have no idea if you can still feel."

He spoke through his teeth, his voice deceptively quiet. He could no longer keep his cool. He leaned toward her, his heated mood bubbling below the surface of his smooth complexion. Her gaze widened.

"You and Ms. Mead used to be the only two women in the world I truly cared about," he hissed. She held her breath, listening to him. "I had feelings for you that went deeper than I had then realized. It was only when you vanished that I knew what a fool I had been."

"I am so sorry," she breathed.

But her apology made him angrier. It was almost as if she had wounded him, assuming that he couldn't feel. Under the influence of his own emotion, his furious gaze glinted dangerously.

"I made a mistake, Angela, when I had opened up to you. Even with the darkness in me, of course, it was possible for me to feel. I thought I could have both-love and purpose. I had thought that you would take my hand, and we would walk toward the future together. Even after Ms. Mead died. For a short while, I thought that I wasn't completely alone, that I still had you. I _wanted_ to have you."

A tear spilled from one of her eyes and rolled down her cheek. Unable to help it, she reached toward him. "You did," she said. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

"My father was willing to accept you," he continued, his teeth still gritted. "In fact, he was thrilled. You would've been a fallen one just like him. I knew you wanted to do it-to follow your heart. That's what he'd done. God had said he was selfish. But unlike with my father, there would've been no one there to punish you for following your own desires. There would've been absolutely no consequences if you had gone with me."

He held her wrist tightly, and her hand went limp in his hold. "I still had a purpose," she explained.

He yanked her, effectively pulling her closer, his face right in hers. She didn't flinch. "What purpose is that, Angela?"

"To protect the good in the world." She was trying to make him understand.

He did. He saw her side and more, an entirely different picture where her beliefs were only a small piece of the puzzle.

"You know, my father also told me that when God made you and him, and the other angels, He was very clear about the fact that only the humans could have all of the free will. And that you had only one purpose-to serve them. Which is why it's still ingrained in you to this day-to protect them. As if you are a guard dog, loyal till the end." He spoke as if he knew better than her. She was taken aback by his strange wisdom, held frozen by his piercing gaze. "But you're no dog. You always had your own free will."

She was the one to look away-back to Ms. Venable's body, but she saw past it, past the reflection of the candles in the dark, almost black red liquid. "I know. I wish that He had never hidden that from us."

"You were so close to giving in to your desire to be with me. But if you still didn't have that desire now, you wouldn't be here, would you? Tell me I'm wrong, Angela."

"I-" She opened her mouth, but the words halted in her throat. She struggled to answer. More tears fell down her cheeks. Michael watched the beads of brine sparkle in the candlelight over her skin.

His voice softened. "Because if you had only the original mission in mind, you would've tried actually killing me long ago. You would've been dead right now. It is your love for me that is keeping you alive." He let go of her hand, which slumped back down to her side. She didn't move to touch him again. She simply cried in silence, closed her eyes.

She was in the midst of great complexity, torn between wants and decisions, what was supposed to be right and wrong. And Michael-he was completely correct. He couldn't read her thoughts, but he could read _her_. Raising his own hand again, he wiped away at one of her cheeks, then used the back of it to wipe the other. She didn't move.

"It's what's keeping you from truly aligning with the witches. It's why you're here in this room with me. You're not here to negotiate. You're not here to beg me to stop. Not only because you know I won't, no matter how much you plead with me, but because your angelic, little heart loves me still. _Tell_ me I'm wrong, Angela." His words were barely a whisper. He held her by the cheek now. She kept her eyes closed. Regarding her closely, he tilted his head.

"No." She gently put her hand over his and said, her voice thick, "I thought that I was better than the other angels. I thought that they were cowards for abandoning humanity. I thought that they were selfish."

As she met Michael's eyes again, she saw him smiling at her, a small tender smile that was quite contrary to how he was just moments before. "You _are_ better," he told her earnestly.

"I am just as selfish," she whispered in disgust.

Michael put his other hand over the other side of her face, making a humming sound in his throat, as if what she said he found silly. "There is nothing wrong with being selfish after being selfless for so long. And you have been _so_ selfless, Angela. You and the other angels…. Your reward has been past due. Since there is no one to give it to you, you must take it yourself, as your brothers and sisters did."

She swallowed hard, licking her lips. She shut her eyes again, more tears fell, and he wiped them with his thumbs. The feeling of anguish inside her built quickly as he held her face, his own mere inches away. It was enough to for her to shudder with a sob. Before she knew it, he was taking his hands away in order to wrap his arms around her and pull her against him. She buried her face in his neck before she could stop herself, and slid her arms around his shoulders.

Michael smiled against the side of her head. "I know that inside you are warring with your beliefs, but were they ever yours to begin with?" he asked, lightly, as if it was a simple question with a simple answer.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. Sorry to heavenly host, and because of what she felt for Michael, sorry to him, too.

"I forgive you," he said, stroking her back.

"Why?" she asked with disbelief and pulled away.

Michael couldn't help but chuckle. She put her hands on his chest so that she could look at him clearly and keep him at bay.

"Because...I still love you, too," he told her. He'd never admit that he was prideful, never in a million years. "Because despite the darkness within me, you had shown me kindness. You believed in me, and I think you still do. You carried a torch for me. You'll end up carrying it as long as you're alive."

"Maybe I'm the fool," Angela said darkly, her arms stiff. He tried to pull her back to him, but she didn't let him. "I thought I was strong to resist this."

"Why would you have—if you are to be loved in return? Let me give you what you deserve." He wound a hand around her neck. "Stop carrying this unnecessary burden on shoulders. Aren't you tired? Underneath this...uniform of a soldier, aren't you sick of fighting in a war that's already over?" He looked her over in the clothes she wore.

"I'm tired," she admitted, closing her eyes.

"Then take my hand, Angela. Be who you want to be and not who you were told to be," he said gently.

She stopped resisting him. He moved his head, closing the distance between them, and kissed her. She responded after a moment of hesitation. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed against him. He responded in kind, his arms a vise grip that she didn't protest. They kissed each other deep and hard, lovers who shouldn't have loved each other this way.

The candles burned brighter. Wax dribbled to the floor. The atmosphere in the room began to lighten as if the energy between them was banishing the dimness all around. Michael growled hungrily when Angela bit his lip. In turn, he severed their mouths and moved his to her neck, planting stinging kisses on her skin. She tipped her head back to allow him better access to her jaw, giving a quiet whimper of pleasure.

Michael was first to open his eyes, laughing, a low rumble in his throat. The brightness was so bright it was as if it was day.

They were no longer in the room at the underground school. They were in a parking lot in broad daylight. The sun shone brightly upon them, and there was a heat in the air, not just between them. He pulled away in shock, while Angela held onto his arms.

"Where are we?" he questioned.

"Don't you recognize it?" she asked him. There was no slyness in her voice, no trickery of any sort.

He turned around, looking from the parked cars to the building behind them. It was a grocery store. The same one he and Ms. Mead used to go to.

"This is where…" It dawned on him slowly, like an old dream. It _felt_ like a dream.

"We first met," she clarified.

Before he could protest, rounding back at her with a scowl, she took his hand and pulled him toward the store doors.

"Let's go. Let's walk down memory lane."

"Why!" he shouted. She had to drag him.

"Because, Michael."

* * *

 **Four Years before the End of Times**

Mother and son strode down the aisle, the former pushing the cart. The boy walked with a small pep in his step, looking from the shelves to his mother with a big smile. Only they didn't look much alike-at all really. She was round-faced, stout, with dark hair that was cut short, and he was tall, skinny, and had a boyish, shaggy haircut. His blond hair reflected the florescent lights of the grocery store like dulled gold.

"Well, you better decide on if you want apple or cherry pie because I want to be in an out. We still have to stop by Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I need to replace those damn Ikea knives," said Ms. Mead.

"I said they looked cheap. They couldn't even cut the steak last night, which was delicious by the way," said Michael. His voice was light, cheerful, yet there was a knowing undertone and a look in his eyes that made him seem far wiser for his young age. "And I'd like cherry, please. Or both. Cherry and apple. Would that be okay?"

Ms. Mead put a hand on his back, smiling up at him warmly. "Why not? We can get both, sweetie. Anything for you." She gave him a few pats and then pulled out a folded piece of paper-her grocery list. It had ten or so things on it. "Here's what we need. You told me you also wanted peanut butter and Eggos. Why don't you get those? I'll get the rest. I've got to get chicken hearts before I forget."

"Making that stew, Ms. Mead?" Michael asked as they paused at the end of the aisle.

"Sure am. You liked it last time I made it, didn't you?" She looked hopeful but was ready to change her mind—anything for Michael.

"I loved it! Less onions though. More carrots," he said, and bent to kiss her forehead. "I'll meet you at the register."

"Sure thing. Get anything else if you want it!" she called after him. Sighing, she couldn't help but watch as he went around the shelves in the opposite direction.

She never had any kids of her own, as if she'd always sensed that she'd be taking care of Satan's child in the end. And what a blessing it was. Not only that-for the Dark Lord to even consider her as his caretaker was the highest honor. Ms. Mead spoiled Michael, she'd readily admit, but he was a good boy. Not to mention, he did well with his school work.

He'd long finished his high school studies and was now at college level. Only, college wasn't in the cards for him. He was aiming for far bigger things. Like impacting the whole wide world. Nevertheless, it didn't stop Michael from reading volumes of textbooks, anything from medical journals to psychology and history books; and books about culture and religion. Got to know the competition, Ms. Mead said-then again, what competition was there really? Michael breezed through the subjects.

He and Ms. Mead also breezed through serial killer documentaries on Netflix every night. Not to mention the Horror category of movies. His favorite was Freddy Krueger, but he also loved Pet Sematary. They both couldn't stop laughing when watching The Shining. He had a healthy array of interests. Recently, he wanted to try taxidermy, so he and Ms. Mead worked on a dead racoon they found, but in the end, the smell was just too putrid, so the both of them resorted to trapping and dissecting stray cats. He'd confided in her that his grandmother had never shared this interest with him.

Michael was smart beyond his years. Ms. Mead sometimes thought he was a wise old man beneath his handsome, cherubic exterior. He was angelic to say the least. Not literally, of course. Ms. Mead cursed those winged bastards.

###

Michael's angelic face stared back at him in the glass door as he considered whether to get the buttermilk waffles or the regular ones. The buttermilk looked thicker and perhaps, therefore, more delicious, so finally, he decided on those and grabbed a couple of the light blue boxes.

Obviously, Ms. Mead's french toast was out of this world, but she couldn't make waffles from scratch to save her life, so Eggos were just fine.

The boy grabbed a box of apple pie and a box of cherry and carried them and the waffles in his arms. He and Ms. Mead had been there at the grocery store plenty of times, as it was their local one, and he knew exactly where the peanut butter was.

He arrived at the register before her, but there were two people with groceries before him, so his pseudo-adoptive mother had some time to catch up. That butcher always gave her shit-being the judgemental asshole that he was-and Michael had half a mind to go on over there and make sure he wasn't saying anything mean and bigoted. He didn't want to lose his place in line, however. Ms. Mead had said she didn't want them to take long.

A girl who looked around his age-early twenties-manned the register. She was taller than most girls but was certainly shorter than him. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail while she had glasses perched on her nose. Beneath the brown and orange apron she wore a ringer t-shirt, and on her name tag it said, _Angela_.

"That will be fifty-six-twenty," she told the lady paying. She pushed her glasses up her nose, for they were sliding down.

Michael kept looking back over his shoulder for Ms. Mead. The second lady before him paid next. Just as he was about to simply leave and go find her, it was his turn before he knew it.

"Hello," the girl greeted him.

He didn't pay attention to her until he was forced to turn around and set the pies, waffles, and peanut butter on the conveyor.

"Hi," he said in response. Dark brown eyes met his. The girl looked nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, she looked a little too ordinary. Polite, he gave her a small smile and added, "My mom should be here soon. She's paying."

"S-sure thing," she told him. She stared at him from behind her glasses, unable to help it. She looked a little frozen. Michael was used to the looks. Girls often looked at him, taken by his handsomeness.

It was his hair and his bright blue eyes. Maybe the way they were sharp and slightly cat-like. As a whole, his face was perfectly proportioned and without a single flaw. Older woman looked at him too, and young men and older men with a taste for younger men and boys. So Michael was used to the attention and completely ignored it outside of the realm of politeness. Ms. Mead was the one who shooed people away if she thought they leered or openly flirted with him. She rarely left his side in public.

One time, an agent approached Michael saying that he had "the look" and Ms. Mead told the guy to go fuck himself and shove that CAA card back up his ass. Out of curiosity, Michael asked her why she got so mad, and she said that acting and modeling were far below his worth. And soon, all of mankind, or at least the worthy portion, would know of his face anyway.

Michael was looking in direction of the butcher still, idly drumming his fingers on the edge of the conveyor, and Angela just watched him, scarcely breathing.

So this was Satan's spawn. He looked so innocent. It shouldn't have been surprising, but it still was-because he wasn't just angelic looking, he was...well, he was beautiful. And they were face to face. Even though he didn't pay attention to her.

"Excuse me?" someone said behind Michael. A man with a basket filled. "Excuse me? Are we moving?"

"Oh." Thinking fast, Angela produced a Register Closed sign out from beneath the register and put it behind Michael's goods. "Sorry, sir. If you would step to the other register." She gave the man a smile, but he just sneered at her and trudged away.

Michael looked at Angela curiously and raised an eyebrow that hid beneath his fringe. "Uh, thanks."

"Uh huh," was all Angela said.

He regarded her, taking her ordinariness in once more. She stood absolutely still and hoped he wouldn't find anything strange about her. His blue eyes were so piercing, like a knife, or as sharp as a razor blade, that they cut through Angela and made her feel completely naked. She rung the edge of her apron in her hands, hoping she wasn't bleeding, figuratively of course.

Unexpectedly, he smiled at her. "I'm Michael." He tilted his head as he took her in, making her dark gaze widen. His own was unfathomable and impossible to read, and Angela could easily read most minds if she wanted to, but not his.

"My name is Angela," she said slowly when she found her voice.

His smile turned into a smirk. He glanced at her nametag and pointed. "I see that, Angela."

The corners of her mouth curved upward. She made a _Heh_ sound.

"You're-" Michael began, eyebrows drawn.

Ms. Mead cut him off. She put two saran-wrapped containers of bloody chicken organs on the belt. Angela even jumped. She had to push her glasses up before they fell off her face.

"I asked to speak with the manager. Got some livers half off. Going to make pâté. You haven't tried my pâté yet!" she told Michael excitedly.

Looking at her, the boy gave her a warm grin, but as he stepped aside to let her ahead of him, he quickly looked back at Angela, who ducked her head and began to ring them up.

"Plastic or paper?" she asked Ms. Mead.

"Plastic. Those damn paper bags always rip halfway to the front door," she groused.

"Of course," Angela said shyly, glancing up at her and her son.

Michael gave her another smile.

At the front of the register, the older Michael stood beside the other Angela, both standing out like a pair of wannabe vampires. Yet, no one looked at them. Because this was a memory.

"I knew there was something about you…" he said. "I just couldn't place it, couldn't describe it yet." He looked at Angela, pressed his lips together, looked vaguely annoyed about reliving the whole thing.

She had a sage expression on her face and raised her chin. "I knew that you weren't completely evil. Look at you."

Michael was helping to put the bags into the cart. Ms. Mead was producing a couple of coupons and scowling when the girl at the register told her they were expired.

"Looks are deceiving," older Michael drawled.

Instead of answering, Angela took him at the crook of his elbow and urged him after his younger self and the real Ms. Mead out of the store. The girl at the register didn't take her eyes off of the first pair until they disappeared through the automatic doors.

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

_I seriously tried to post as soon as I could after the last episode, which was epic, by the way. I'm sure most of you agree. It gave me_ soo _many more ideas._

 _I tried to add a lot in this chapter-only because I want to bring our two closer to the present and the events of the show. However, I'm really going to try not to repeat scenes and just rewrite them. I think that's boring. But there will be a few that I simply see Angela being in if she were in the show._

 _This season is all about flashbacks. I really hope that my version of them works. I really want to drive home the reason why Angela and Michael have their weird bond, not just tell you that they do. (like so many fics I've seen with Michael/OCs and Michael/Reader tags, unfortunately)_

 _I have a_ tumblr _where I post gifs (I love making them in Photoshop) and_ photmanips _and drawings. If you're curious, check it out. russianspy24DOTtumblrDOTcom_

 _I hope to post soon! Soon, we'll see the school for boys, the witches, and what Angela does further on in the growing shitstorm!_

 _Thanks for reading, and as always, fav or follow if you haven't and liked what you've read, or leave a comment with your thoughts._

 _Also, more M rated content in future chapters. Promise_.

* * *

The dark street was quiet. They walked down the sidewalk as a light traffic of cars passed. It was a nice evening. There was a gentle breeze, a warmth in the air. The sun had stopped beating down once it had set, but the temperature hadn't dropped too far down at all. There were even a few stars between the palm trees overhead.

Michael was not happy. Not only did he hate being kept in the dark, but he did not like being victim to the angel's strange Inception power. "Angela, what are we doing here? Take us back. Now."

Angela didn't react to his simmering aggravation as she walked beside him. "We're still in the room in the school. We haven't left. I've just stopped time to show you." He did a double take. "I can do this now," she explained.

"Show me what?" he questioned.

She looked at him sagely. "The past. Before you forget it all."

"I haven't forgotten!" he all but yelled.

Angela grew stern but remained patient. "I think you have. Your power has consumed you."

His fists were clenched by his sides. "So you lied to me after all," he said, that old hurt beading through the scabbed-over wound.

"I did not," she answered calmly.

Michael stopped and took her by the arm, halting her in place, looking at her square in the eye.

All he could really do was threaten since he had no power to stop the illusion, or dream, whatever it was. "You do want to stop me. You can try."

Angela tilted her head with a sigh. "I can't. So all I want to do is _show_ you."

He put his hands on both her shoulders. She didn't react, which infuriated him. "Show me what?!" he demanded.

She put her hands over his, forcing them down. "Just take my hand and be patient," she said gently. "You'll see."

"No." She saw the boy behind the mask of intimidation and viciousness he wore, and she frowned. It wouldn't work on her.

"You're betraying me," he spat, low, like a boy who wasn't getting his way.

She was killing him with her reasoning and knew it well. "Michael, if you still love me like you say you do, then just give me a chance, and then you can do what you want."

"Don't test me," he went on.

She let go of his hands but held one of hers out for him to take. "Just humor me. Please. That's all I ask. And then if by the end of this, nothing changes, then you can…move me out of your way. Permanently." He'd know what she meant. She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head.

Michael faltered. She was serious. She looked very grave all of a sudden. Her dark gaze was a deep pool of portent that he almost didn't want to look at, for he broke eye contact. "I…I don't want to."

"I won't stop you," she said easily, truthfully.

He didn't take her hand. She dropped hers.

"You're making this difficult—on _purpose_ ," he said, looking out into the street.

It was all so very real, like the apocalypse didn't happen, as if he'd never ushered it. The world was its old self. Maybe that's what also made him uneasy.

Angela reached out to take his hand anyway, giving it a squeeze. "Yes, I am. Come on."

He made a noise in his throat that sounded like a growl and resisted, but she dragged him again.

"Do you know where we are now?" she asked, like a school teacher beginning a lesson.

Michael didn't answer right away. He was sneering, but he did look ahead. After a moment, he recognized where they were going.

"That's Ms. Mead's house," he said, pointing.

There was someone walking their dog across the street and a girl on a bike ahead.

Ms. Miriam Mead's house was a quaint bungalow, utterly ordinary. In fact, it was inviting and homey. Certainly, no one would ever expect that a Satanist would live there, not until they went up to the door and saw an upside-down cross hanging beside the doorbell. The lights were on in the living room, and just through the doorway, the old woman and the boy were seen sitting in the kitchen, having a dinner of chicken hearts stew.

"...in Satan's name, Nema," Ms. Mead said, finishing the before-dinner prayer. She opened her eyes and lifted her head with a grin. "Dig in!"

Behind her, the little altar glowed with tall, red candles.

"Smells good, Ms. Mead!" Michael said, picking up his spoon. In the bowl before him, the dark reddish-brown stew lightly steamed and smelled delicious. It looked like beef stew. There were carrots (more of them like he'd wanted), potatoes, onions (less this time), celery, but instead of cuts of meat, there were little round morsels of, well, chicken hearts.

The two ate in silence for a few minutes, relishing the cooking.

"Say, Ms. Mead," Michael spoke up after practically devouring half of his bowl. "Is this what all followers of my father eat? Like, is it tradition?"

"No, not at all," she said with a smile. "I just like to think that I have a...wide culinary pallet, you see. I picked up these recipes while I was over in Chechnya years ago. When the other members of the church have potluck, no one eats my food, the picky bastards." She slurped a spoonful. "But hey, more for me."

"They are missing out!" Michael said, looking at her with adoration. "I _love_ your cooking."

"Thankfully so did my husbands," she said. They both laughed, as she'd already told the boy of her husbands' dismal fates.

"Oh, I've got to make cow tongue for you sometime. I think you'll like it, too. With a little garlic and rosemary. Mm _mm._ Put it on some toasted baguette, too! _Delish_ —as those basic bitches say."

"You know what I love most about you, Ms. Mead?" the boy said, his voice going gentle. The woman's expression softened. "You're teaching me so much about everything—I don't-I don't know what I'd do without you!"

Ms. Mead was sort of tearing up. "Taking care of you, bestowing my knowledge onto you, why, it's my life's purpose."

Michael did tear up and looked down, suddenly shy. "You're...you're like the mother I never had."

"Oh, Michael," Ms. Mead sighed. "That...that means a lot...to hear you say that."

"Praise my father for having us meet," Michael said, smiling up at her as a tear rolled down his cheek. He quickly wiped it.

"Praise the Dark Lord," she said. She was never one to cry but she did blink a few times. "Now," she reached across the table for his bowl, "more stew?"

"Yes, please!"

She stood and kissed him on the head as she passed him to the stove. Michael looked like the happiest boy in the world, smiling from ear to ear. Then he glanced through the kitchen doorway into the living room-at the bay windows. The street outside was quiet.

Angela hid in the bushes out of sight. Her bike was shadowed behind the trees on the edge of the property. Michael didn't see her, thankfully. In the next moment, his attention was taken away by Ms. Mead again. She put a second helping of food before him, and he eagerly picked up his spoon again.

Standing on the lawn, also looking through the windows, were the real Angela and Michael. The latter's gaze was pensive, dark. "I knew I had sensed something-some _one_ ," he said.

"This is the only time I spied on you," she assured him coolly. She started walking back to the sidewalk.

Michael remained there, watching him and Ms. Mead a moment longer, sadness and nostalgia moving its way across his pale, chiseled face. He missed that woman-when she was her true self and full of energy and, most importantly, alive. He wouldn't let Angela see the effect it had on him, as his eyes watered, so he stood there longer until he composed himself again.

When he met Angela on the sidewalk, the night was going through a fast forward. He looked up at the sky. The stars and the moon moved rapidly. The sun was rising in a matter of seconds. Michael watched with awe that he couldn't conceal. The sun set and rose again twice. It became a few days later.

"What else can do you now?" he asked her. He might've even looked a little perturbed by the powerful aura she emanated.

Out of nowhere, Angela produced a pair of dark, round sunglasses and smirked, holding them out to him. "Here. Looks like you'll need them."

####

Trash day was that day-Tuesday. Although Ms. Mead did spoil him, he had to do his chores, which included taking the trash in and out. The empty containers stood before the driveway, lids flipped open. As he started dragging them off the street, someone, a girl, passed him on her bike. He didn't get a good look at her, but his eyes did briefly trail after her.

It was when he was alongside the house, setting the cans side-by-side in their usual place when he heard a jingle and a crash. It came further up the block. It was followed by the sounds of kids. Naturally curious, Michael went back down the drive to see what had happened.

There, a few houses down was the girl who'd been on her bike. She was on the ground, looked like she'd fallen. Two young kids were standing near her. One of them grabbed a wayward basketball, which probably had been the reason for her fall.

Michael approached without really thinking twice about it.

"We're sorry!" the other boy was saying.

"We didn't see you," said the first, looking guilty, holding the basketball.

The girl was on her side with her bike pressing into one leg. She winced and started getting up, sliding her thigh out. "It's fine. It's okay," she told them.

A pair of hands grabbed hold of the bike to help her. Surprised, she looked up to see the blond young man.

"Are you all right?" he asked her. Recognition flashed in both of their faces. "Angela?" He held the bike up with one hand while taking her by the arm with his other to pull her up to her feet.

He remembered her. The girl at the grocery store. They'd seen each other just a few days before. He never forgot a face.

"I'm all right. Thank you, I-I-" she said, holding onto his shoulder, and then she let go to see the damage. Before she could assess herself and the bike, which she took from him, Michael rounded on the kids, seemingly in her defense.

"Hey! What the hell's wrong with you?" he demanded. The boys backed up, flinching at the volume of his voice.

Angela immediately intervened, setting the bike back down on its side. "No, no, it's okay!"

"Watch where you're playing!"

"We said we're sorry!" the second boy yelped with fear.

Michael, for someone so handsome, was unexpectedly so intense, like he was about to gut the kids with his glare alone. Angela, although they were far from familiar, quickly took him by the arm to pull him back.

"It was an accident. Just an accident. The ball just rolled in my way. I didn't see it in time so I swerved."

The kids, not bothering to stick around, scattered toward the house, past their basketball net. Michael glared daggers until they disappeared inside their front door.

"It's okay. Really. I'm fine. It's all right." She let him go and took a step back, and he slowly turned around to face her. His brows were drawn together, his gaze narrowed, his fists clenched.

Angela swallowed and held up her own hands placatingly. "Thank you for helping me. I appreciate it."

"Are-are you okay?" he asked her, and looked her over.

The girl looked down at herself. She appeared completely unharmed, not a scratch on her. She turned her arms this way and that and examined her legs. Not a speck of blood, aside from some dirt from the fall. The bike, however... Both of them looked at it, then, and Angela picked it back upright with a frown.

It was a Streamliner, looked newly restored, or just kept in good care. Its art-deco styled, long sweeping frame was cream colored and shiny. Angela herself wore equally light-colored clothing-a plain white t-shirt and beige jeans. They could be washed. But the bike-it was scratched in more than one place and there was a dent in the rear fender.

"Oh, no..." Michael said, as if reading her mind.

Angela ran her fingers over the scratches in the frame, shaking her head. "It's okay. I can still ride it."

The bike was a beauty. Michael didn't have to voice it. He too touched it-where the dent was-very gingerly. It was probably the most beautiful bike he'd ever seen, and he'd never really ridden one before.

"Those kids…" he said quietly, dangerously.

"Michael."

He turned his head to met her dark gaze, the bike between them. She was certainly far more at ease over the matter than him. He did not understand. Why was she letting it go so easily?

"It was an accident, and I can just fix the paint and pop the dent. It's not that bad," she assured him.

He had no choice but to accept it.

"But are you okay?" he asked once more.

Angela dusted off her thigh. "Nothing a little laundry detergent can't handle." She even smiled.

His expression faded, became unreadable as he stood there, regarding her. If it was him-he would've probably gone to the kids' parents, or had gotten Ms. Mead to help him. He wouldn't have just shrugged it off. He would've done something.

"It's nice to see you again," Angela said.

It was strange to see her in a different setting, out of her apron and name tag. Her glasses were gone and her hair was free, in loose waves on her shoulders. She almost looked like a different person.

He was pulled from his thoughts. "It's...nice to see you, too."

She pushed her bike forward and swung her leg around it. Looking over her shoulder, she gave him another smile. "See you around, Michael," she said.

"Bye," he said. And she simply rode off. Just like that.

He watched her go. He vaguely heard Ms. Mead calling his name. She had stepped out of the house, ever protective, to see where he'd gone.

####

Jimi Hendrix's _All Along the Watchtower_ played from the car's stereo. It was dark out and it was a rarity for it to rain in Southern California. But both Ms. Mead and Michael seemed to be in a good mood. Rain was fortuitous weather.

"I really like this guy!" Michael was saying. "He really knows how to play guitar. Too bad he died."

"It's called the 27 club," Ms. Mead said matter-of-factly. "And that's just how the game works. You make a deal, become famous, and then your bill comes due. Plain and simple. Jimi Hendrix and the others knew what they were doing. It's all in the fine print. Got to read it before you sign your name away in the Devil's book."

"Why 27?" Michael asked, looking at her as she drove.

Ms. Mead shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know…" she said admitted. "But it's an important number to the Dark Lord. If you want his help making it big, if you're an artist or a musician, an actor, well, you get 27 happy years. You go to hell when you die, but at least you're remembered forever. It's what they all wanted, really. To be remembered."

Michael listened with eager and rapt attention. "Sounds fair."

"And boy, do we remember them. For example, Amy Winehouse. Everyone tries to imitate her voice. Robert Johnson-who was an amazing jazz player. _Hellhound on My Trail_ , my favorite song. Heath Ledger, who played the best Joker ever. Fuck that cross-dressing Leto guy. Ledger will always be the best Batman villain in history."

"Who? Joker? Batman?" the boy asked.

"Oh, son, that trilogy is next on our list. Don't let me forget."

Michael liked when she called him, _son_. He said, "Okay!" and was still smiling as he looked out his window. Ms. Mead glanced at him with her own grin.

An upside down cross hung from the rearview mirror, reflecting the street lights, which spilled like an Edvard Munch painting. Michael stared at the street, marveling at how mysterious it all looked, washed away. Like a completely different world. Maybe this is how the apocalypse would look like when it cleansed the whole place.

There was a white shape up ahead that caught his attention. It was blurry. Someone was riding their bike while holding an umbrella.

Michael recognized the person before he even saw their face. He didn't know why. He just did. It was the way they...glowed. The umbrella was also white and reflected the car's headlights.

"It's Angela!"

"Who?" Ms. Mead said.

They passed the girl, who looked quite content biking in the rain with her umbrella. Michael turned in his seat.

"Stop the car!"

"What? Why?" Ms. Mead asked.

"Let's give her a ride," Michael said.

"You know her?"

"She's the girl from the grocery store," the boy explained. "She works at the register."

"Oh, that girl." Ms. Mead was slowing down. "I'm not sure we have room for a bike…"

"Sure we do."

Angela seemed not to notice them until the car came to a stop and she neared it. She was going to pass right by, but Michael rolled down his window before she could, and she came to a halt, looking at him, surprised, through the sheet of rain that poured off of her umbrella.

"Michael?" she said.

A smile lit his face as he looked at her. "Hey, do you need a ride? You're getting all wet."

Indeed, while Angela's head, shoulders, and middle were dry, her legs and arms looked like they got wet regardless. She wore a long, tan trench coat, half of which was soaked. But the rain was warm, and she hadn't seemed to mind at all, for she returned his smile with her own.

"I like the rain," she said, bending a little to see further inside the car.

Ms. Mead's glowering expression was seen past Michael in the driver's seat. Either she didn't like rain getting inside her car, or she was disapproving of helping out the girl. Angela's smile faltered a little but she quickly returned her gaze to the boy, who repeated:

"We could give you a ride."

Angela looked uncertain. "Are...you sure?"

Michael glanced at Mead, not asking her, and opened his car door. "Let me help you get your bike in the trunk."

The girl got off said bike, saying, "Oh. All right. Um, thank you." They went to the back of the car, and she held her umbrella over him, not that he seemed to care that he was getting wet. His golden hair stuck to his forehead and rain beaded down his face.

He gave the trunk a knock for Ms. Mead to open it. It popped with a click and he heaved the bike up.

"Not sure it'll fit," Angela said, stepping back to give him room to shove the bike inside.

"Sure it will. I'll make it fit," he told her, squinting in the downpour.

It took a few tries to get the bike in the right way. No, it didn't fit all the way. Part of the rear wheel stuck out, and Angela watched as Michael found a piece of rope and used the latch to tie the lid down as securely as he could. There were a few red stains on the rope that Angela noticed but didn't comment on. She and Michael quickly ran back around the car, with the former climbing into the back seat. She folded the umbrella and set it to her feet.

Michael turned around in his seat, foregoing the seatbelt. Ms. Mead got the car back onto the road.

"Where are you going?" he asked Angela.

Angela ran her hands through her hair and wiped her chin and neck. "Well, home. I was going home."

"You live nearby?" Ms. Mead intoned, looking through the rearview mirror.

"Uh, yes. Just a few blocks away. It's not really that far. I didn't mind using my bike. Thanks for giving me a ride, though. You didn't have to," the girl said politely. She clasped her hands in her lap, back straight, and her gaze passed quickly over the upside down crucifix before meeting Michael's.

"No problem at all," he said, the epitome of sweetness. Ms. Mead gave him a sharp glance and he then turned back around in his seat. She didn't wear a seatbelt and neither did he, Angela noted.

"Where do you live?" Ms. Mead asked.

Angela tried to ignore the feeling she had that this was the last thing on earth that Mead wanted to be doing. For the sake of Michael, she was obliging, clearly. Angela pointed between them at the windshield. Shapes of houses and apartment buildings were indistinguishable. "That apartment building on the corner up there-if you know it."

It took no time at all for them to get there. Angela thanked them. Ms. Mead simply grunted in response. Michael was once more getting out of the car to help the girl. Angela unfolded her umbrella and held it over their heads.

"Your bike," Michael said before pulling it out. He noted that there was no more dent on the rear fender. "You fixed it?" There were no more scratches on the rest of it, either, like it was painted over again, spotless.

The girl nodded curtly, her brown eyes passing over the bloodied ropes again. Michael had shoved them back into the trunk. "Yep, like new again," she said distractedly.

He set the bike down, holding it steady between them. Angela patted one of his hands with her free one, the touch very brief. "Thank you, Michael. That was very kind of you-giving me a ride."

Michael glanced down at their hands, then he regarded her intently, his eyes piercing even in the darkness. The backlights of the car made them glint red. "Of course," he said as if the decision had been a no-brainer, even chuckling. "Couldn't let you get home in the rain."

Angela studied his expression, and for a moment, they were both silent. She searched his gaze, seeing nothing but honesty in it. She stared, almost curious- _surprised_. She felt him put his own hand over hers where she held the bike by the handle.

This was not what she would've ever expected from the spawn of…

The car's horn made them both jump. They were taking too long for Ms. Mead's taste, who was watching them the entire time through the back window, standing in the rain under the umbrella like that. She sneered, although they couldn't see her face.

Michael shut the trunk and Angela wheeled the bike back to the sidewalk. "Good night," she bidded the boy.

"Good night, Angela," he said, that boyish grin of his returning. "See you around. I hope."

On the sidewalk, the girl simply nodded and watched him open his door, saw Ms. Mead's eyes glued on her, and remained, in stun, until they drove away. A splash of rainwater from the car's wheels hit Angela's feet before she could react.

The boy's touch-it had been warm. She looked down at her hand, the knuckles, still feeling it. He seemed so ordinarily human, almost too human. Was it a trick? Was it an act? Was he just that good?

The devil, or this case his son, didn't have to have horns and a tail. He could've been beautiful, like an angel. For the first time, during this mission of hers, she hesitated.

Two figures, about twenty feet away, watched. It rained, but it didn't affect them. They were dry to the bone.

"What were you thinking there?" the real Michael asked.

The real Angela watched her own self and didn't answer for a beat. "I had then realized that none of this was going as I had expected it would. That you...were not who I expected."

He turned his head to her. "Who did you expect?"

Angela didn't take her eyes off of herself. "Someone...evil."

Michael clenched his jaw, silent. He seemed both offended and accepting of that description of him.

"But instead I saw kindness in you," she whispered.

####

The next time he saw her was later in the week. Michael came to the grocery store himself-Ms. Mead let him run the errand. They needed milk and eggs. It was easy enough and with so few purchases, the walk back home wouldn't have been bad at all. Michael made sure to go to Angela's register. She shot him a smile as he waited for the people ahead of him to pay.

When it was his turn, he pulled out a twenty dollar bill, and she rang him up.

"Fancy seeing you here," she said. She wore her glasses again, and her hair was up. Like she was someone else. In truth, she was trying to blend in, seem plain.

Michael no longer saw her as such. He couldn't help the grin that lit up his face-as if he was the sun himself. "Fancy that," he replied.

She noted he was alone, unless that Satan-worshiping old hag was still getting her goat's legs at the butcher. Still, Angela inquired about Ms. Mead's lack of presence casually enough. "You here alone?"

"Oh no," Michael laughed, running a hand back through his curly locks. "I mean, yes. Yeah, I came here myself. Just needed a few things." He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his black jeans and tried to seem nonchalant.

Angela raised an eyebrow at him with a smirk, noting that he was off. He was almost...anxious. Or giddy, or both. "Seven-fifty," she said, and took his twenty dollars. The register popped open for her to get his change. After handing it to him, she bagged the milk and eggs. However, before he could leave, she reached along the conveyor and took a Snickers bar from the rows above.

"Here, this is on me," she said and dropped the candy bar in the bag too. Michael's eyes went wide.

He had no idea why she did it, and she didn't explain herself. She just gave him a smile. As he opened his mouth to say something, the person behind him stepped up with their own groceries, and Angela was forced to ring them up next.

"I, uh," he said, stepping away with his bag but lingering.

"Have a good day, Michael," Angela told him.

He let out a small laugh, bashful. Not knowing how to possibly react, he ended up turning around and going to the exit, but not without looking back at her one last time. She gave him a small wave. He awkwardly lifted his hand in return.

Outside in the parking lot, he stopped to reach inside the bag and take out the Snickers bar. Instead of opening it and eating it, he put it in his back pocket. Something told him that Ms. Mead wouldn't be too happy to know that he got it for free, and from that girl, whom he'd sensed she wasn't too fond of. With a pep in his step, he started home.

He went around the building. He passed the bike rack. A group of young men-four of them-were loitering around, doing absolutely nothing productive. One was smoking something that looked like a poorly wrapped cigarette that smelled like skunk. Two were eyeing the bike rack. The fourth was reaching for his turn with the "cigarette."

Michael stopped not because the shitheads were smoking weed, but because the particular bike that they were eyeing was a beautiful, vintage, cream-colored Streamliner. It was bound to the stand by a chain. The guys looked like they were going to figure out a way to steal it.

"Man, I could sell this ride for a couple hundo easily," one said.

"Fuck that. It's worth a grand," said the joint-smoking one.

The other took the joint back. "Man, this is vintage, yo. Come on, wanna spring it?"

Michael overcame with a dark, menacing cloud of disapproval, hearing them. It was Angela's bike. He'd recognize it anywhere. Of course, it would be parked there. She worked there. It was hers. Not theirs. He wasn't going to let them take it.

As he stopped a few paces away, the four guys slowly looked up at him.

"This yours?" one of them, squatted beside the bike, asked.

"No," Michael answered. "But it's not yours either."

They snickered, their eyes sizing Michael up. He was a tall kid, taller than them, but they also looked tough. Michael might've been in over his head, playing the hero.

"Man, mind your own business," another said.

"Fuck off, bro," said the first.

"You were going to take it," Michael said slowly. They laughed again.

"We were just lookin at it."

"No...you weren't."

The one who had been squatting stood up to approach him. Michael remained where he was, not intimidated in the least. Neither were they threatened by him.

Michael was deadly as they saw right through them all, right into their souls. "You were going to make off with it, sell it. Try to get some money for it. But that's called stealing. Taking what isn't yours. You guys steal a lot of things, don't you? I can tell. You guys look the type. Thieves. With nothing better to do than waste your pathetic lives on street corners. I'm not going to let you take that bike."

One of them muttered, "He racist?"

The guy in front of Michael cocked his head. "Man, you wanna stop us?

Michael was void of emotion, sounded robotic. "Yes, I'm going to stop you."

Then he was pushed backward, square in the chest. He didn't fall. He recovered easily, bracing himself on his feet. But the guy even knocked the bag out of his hand with a following kick of his leg. It fell to the ground. The soft crunching sound of eggs breaking was heard. The milk spilled because the top went loose.

Michael watched the asphalt bleed with white and yellow, seeping through the top of the bag. He shook bodily, hunched forward, having been unable to save the groceries. It was the whole reason he'd come there in the first place.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly, but loud enough for them to hear. He quickly looked up to see that the guy was in his face again.

Michael's eyes were glittering with hot anger. His fists were clenched. However, he didn't strike. Instead, his gaze snapped past the guy, over to one of his friends by the bike. In an instant, his friend began to cough. It wasn't a steady progression. It was fast. Like he was choking on something. He grabbed at his own throat. The others looked over at him in alarm.

The one in front of Michael didn't pay attention right away. He reached forward to take Michael's shirt in his fist.

The other boy had blood coming out of his nose. A panic filled all of them. Michael took the hand at his neck by the wrist and wrenched it downward, twisting. He was rewarded by a cry of startle and pain. The choking boy fell to the ground. The two others started to choke, too. Michael shoved the fourth guy back, and he landed on his ass.

Someone appeared around the corner behind the blond. He didn't hear or see them. He was too preoccupied. He stared at the guys, who writhed on the ground, bleeding out of their noses. Their mouths too. Michael's eyes were glued and he wished them death.

"Michael? Michael!"

It was Angela, who all but stopped with a gasp and took in the scene before her. Michael was an unmoving statue when she grabbed him by the shoulder. She had to use force to make him turn toward her. His teeth were gritted and he was about to shove her away, too. She wasn't letting go, but finally, seeing it was her, he snapped out of it.

"Angela?"

"What happened?" she asked him. She took him by both shoulders and glanced down at the spilled milk and broken eggs, and then at the four hooligans who happened to still be breathing, released from whatever invisible hold he'd had them under.

They didn't understand what happened, how he did that, made them choke and bleed, but they knew, deep down, that the boy had somehow done it, had wanted them to die. Magically. With his mind. Impossibly. One guy got up by himself. The others helped each other, wiping their faces, spitting bloody spittle on the ground.

Michael looked back at them, his gaze narrowed, and they scattered. One guy had to be dragged, holding onto a friend.

"Michael!" Angela searched his face, blocking his view. "Hey, look at me. What happened? Did they do something to you?"

"They…" Michael seemed to still be in a daze. His eyes were unfocused. "They were going to steal your bike."

He looked past her at the bike rack, where the cream Streamliner stood unharmed. She let him go and turned around. _That_ was what happened? All this because of her bike?

The words rushed out of his mouth like a torrent of water. "They were talking about taking it and selling it. I was stopping them. And they-they knocked down the milk and eggs." Angela saw the spill near him. "They threatened me. I-I...threatened them back. I was _stopping_ them."

Angela's gaze trailed away from the spill, back to the bike, and near it, she saw drips of blood. She'd seen their bleeding faces, the terror in their eyes. Silent, she just stared for a long moment. Michael slowly calmed down, his breathing evening. He noticed her reaction. He saw that she didn't have the words to answer.

Then, he touched her arm. "I'm...I'm sorry."

She slowly looked back up at him.

"I wanted to hurt them." His eyes were tearing up. He was suddenly full of emotion.

"Michael," she said softly. Her throat was dry. She swallowed hard, frozen in place.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." A tear fell down his cheek, which was flushed. "I'm so sorry, Angela."

"You wanted to…" She shook her head. "You wanted to stop them because they were...going to steal...my bike?"

He nodded. She was trying to process this. And Michael, he seemed wracked with guilt, torn. He had tried to do something good, yet he'd gone about it by doing something...bad. The emotion didn't look like an act. Again, she was stunned.

She lifted her hand to wipe his tears. His breath hitched at the gesture. Then she took a step past him, linking her hand with his. "Let's go buy another carton of milk and eggs."

He let her lead him back inside the grocery store. Shortly after, she left the place with him, having taken off her apron and name tag. They crossed the parking lot.

"But your job," he said, holding the new bag.

"I'm taking my lunch break," she said easily. This time her smile was somewhat forced. "I'll walk you home."

Michael blinked at her, squinting in the bright sun. The heat beat down on them. It rippled off the hot asphalt. Angela was looking ahead, knowing where to go. He didn't question it. He just looked at her.

"It's the least I can do," she explained herself at last. "For...protecting my bike, and giving me a ride the other day."

"You're...nice," he uttered, "to me."

It sounded like a revelation-of a boy with no friends. Angela glance at him a few times. Michael had long stopped crying, but his expression was still dark and hurt.

"There are a lot of evil people in the world. Like those guys. You...You're so kind."

"There are many other kind people out there," she told him. They'd crossed the intersection, having left the plaza that the grocery store was in, and started down a residential street.

"Where?" Michael asked her. "I've seen only the bad ones." Shade from trees bathed them in clusters of dark spots.

"Everyone has good in them. Sometimes, it's just buried deeper in others." Angela regarded him seriously, yet without scolding, holding her gaze steady, patiently. It was like he was hearing this for the first time in his life. She didn't mind teaching him. It was why she was there in the first place, after all. "Sometimes, it takes a little effort to see the good, but it always ends up being there."

Michael, not saying anything, took the rest of the way home to process her words. They walked in silence. Angela studied him a couple of times, to try to see, to imagine, what he was thinking. She couldn't. His eyebrows were narrowed and he was intently focused on the road ahead, a million miles away. He might've been mentally damning her for all she knew, cursing her and waiting until they got to his house so she could go the hell away.

But to her surprise, as they stopped before the walk to his front door, he looked at her with what appeared to be gratitude, his full lips curling into a small, timid smile. His shoulders were still hunched, but his face softened. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"You didn't have to walk me home," he said.

Angela looked at his hand, not meeting his eyes right away. "I wanted to," she said. "You were really shaken up. I...wanted to make sure you were all right."

His hand remained there. Her gaze drifted up to his own.

"I've never met anyone like you before," he admitted, taking a step toward her. She was very aware of how his hand was warm, hot even, on her shoulder. She gingerly put her own hand over his knuckles.

What could she say? Certainly not who she really was. So she just smiled at him, which had become a habit of hers when she didn't know what to answer. She knew that he knew she was different. Michael was extremely smart, perceptive, even if he was young. He was the devil's son. The complete antithesis of her. No matter how simple and human she might've tried to seem, he'd sense that she wasn't either.

Angela didn't notice what he was doing until she felt the tingling of his breath on her face. Then she realized how close he'd moved his head to her own. His bright gaze was on her mouth. She quickly looked at his, the way they were parted, looked pillowy soft. She held her breath.

The front door opened and a loud voice cut the air between them like a blunt butter knife. "Michael!"

The boy pulled away as if he'd been doused with liquid fire and saw Ms. Mead standing on the front porch. She looked livid, but that lividity wasn't directed at him. It was at Angela, who'd also quickly stepped away.

Red-faced and embarrassed, Michael was only able to give Angela a fleeting smile before running up the walkway with the bag of milk and eggs. The girl remained, and Ms. Mead scarcely took a breath, let alone blinked. She had the devil in her eyes.

Angela didn't look away, held her own. Ms. Mead ushered Michael inside, hand on his back, but not before giving the girl the worst, damning look that she'd ever received from absolutely anyone, ever. If Ms. Mead possessed the wrath of Satan, she would've stricken Angela down to a pile of smoking ash. The door slammed behind the woman and the boy.

Inside, Michael put the milk and eggs on the kitchen counter and took out the Snickers that he remembered was in his back pocket. It was squishy, melted. He stepped to put it in the fridge.

Ms. Mead didn't waste time. "What was that girl doing with you?"

"She walked me home," he said coolly, hiding the Snickers bar behind the bottles of condiments on the shelves of the door.

The woman just stared at him. " _Why_?"

Michael looked back at her, shrugging. "She's nice." He wasn't going to tell her about the incident. Ms. Mead would _not_ be happy.

She crossed her arms over her chest and arched a dark brow. Instead of further expressing her anger, an idea popped into her mind. "If you like her, maybe we should...use her for the Black Mass coming up."

The boy seemed like he'd misheard her. "What?"

Ms. Mead stepped toward him to put the milk and eggs away. "The Black Mass. We need a sacrifice. Doesn't have to be a virgin this time. And another girl is preferable. That girl...seems like she could work."

Michael was aghast. " _Angela_?"

Ms. Mead was facing the fridge. "Yeah, what do you think, my boy?"

"For a... _sacrifice_?"

The woman didn't seem to understand the big deal. "I think the Dark Lord would like to see her blood spilled across the altar."

Michael slammed his fist on the counter, shouting, "No!" And Ms. Mead gasped, hand on her heart. "She's my friend!"

She closed the fridge, her eyes wide as saucers. "Your-your _friend_?"

"Yes!" Michael hissed. "And I would appreciate that you didn't talk about her blood being spilled." He trudged past her, almost shoving her from the fridge, which he opened to get the milk back out. "Why does every pretty girl have to be a possible candidate for Black Mass?"

"I-uh-Michael," Ms. Mead stuttered.

"What if I just want to be friends with a nice girl?" he demanded while slapping the milk down and reaching up to get a clean glass from a cupboard. "She's been nothing but kind to me."

"If-if you say so, Michael. Whatever you want."

Ms. Mead watched as he filled the glass, which he had a big sip from. Say nothing else to him, and vise versa, the woman simply left him. At the end of the day, he'd reminded her of who he was. And she loved him for it. Anything for the spawn of Satan. He was her reason for living, after all.

In the doorway, the real Angela and Michael watched Ms. Mead go between them, and then they met eyes.

"I didn't know you felt so strongly for me so soon," Angela said. She'd heard young Michael say that for the first time.

"What can I say?" He stepped toward her, closing the distance between them. He reached up to take her chin in his fingers, tilt it up. She watched him carefully, steadily. He smirked devilishly. "You had made an impression on me."

Younger Michael finished all of his milk and sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

_Ahh! I wanted to post sooner and with a longer chapter, but I didn't want to wait any longer. I hope to post chapter 5 sooner!_

 _I can't believe that the season is almost over. 10 episodes don't seem like enough! They could've done so much more with Michael...like added an angel to the mix ;)_

 _I hope y'all enjoy this chapter! Thank you for the reviews, favs and follows! They made me giddy beyond belief! It's nice to know people are liking this story._

* * *

It was over a week until the next time Michael saw Angela again. Ms. Mead hadn't brought her up since that day the girl had walked him home, but Michael knew that Mead had been avoiding going to the grocery store until she really needed to go to the butcher. She needed a goat's head for her incantations. A human sacrifice would've been ideal for Black Mass, but in this day and age, it was hard to find someone without the possibility of the law getting involved.

Michael helpfully got a cart once they entered the store. "I'll go get the stuff on the list, and you get the head," he told Ms. Mead without waiting for her.

She watched him, furrowing her brows at the order. He was being helpful, which she loved, yet he looked a little too eager. Not hard to guess why. The woman looked in direction of the registers and narrowed her eyes. Angela's head bobbed between the other people there as she worked.

Ms. Mead stared at it for a moment, envisioning it bloody, cut at the neck, on a platter on the altar for the Dark Lord, mousy brown hair snipped at that ponytail.

A goat head had to do.

Michael got the first two things on the list but lingered in front of the aisles with his cart, watching Angela from the short distance at her register. She didn't appear like she saw him. He stood there, hoping she would catch his gaze. She was ringing people up, perhaps too preoccupied. So Michael left his cart and went to the register, going past an old lady who was unloading her groceries into the conveyor.

Angela was surprised to see him.

"Sorry. Not cutting in front of you," he promised the old lady, who didn't mind as she had a full cart. "I just want to speak...to..uh…"

Angela gave him a smile as she held out a receipt to her last customer, a man who then walked away.

"Hello, Michael." She quickly glanced past the boy. He seemed to sense her question.

"I'm here with Ms. Mead," he said.

Angela nodded. "Oh, okay."

"I just wanted to come by and speak to you for a second." Michael glanced, a bit nervous, at the old lady, who didn't pay attention. She had probably twenty cans of tomato sauce to stack.

Angela really couldn't fathom what he wanted to speak about. Honestly, she felt uneasy all of a sudden, but she tried to appear cool and collected. No one was paying attention to them.

"Okay. What's up, Michael?"

Michael, looking very boyish, ran a hand through his shaggy golden hair and looked down at his feet for a second. "Well, uh, nothing. Things have pretty much been the same…"

Angela studied him. "Did you want me to help you with something?"

He broke out into a shy smile as he looked at her again—it made her heart skip a beat for no reason.

"I, uh…"

"Yes?" she prompted him. She scarcely took a breath.

He leaned his hands on the edge of the conveyor and subsequently moved closer to her. She was reminded of him doing the same the last time they saw each other, after they'd walked to his house, and he had almost ki—

"Would you want to go to the movies with me sometime?" He blurted it out but didn't stutter, confident enough.

Angela blinked owlishly. "The movies?"

"You know, like a film," he clarified.

"Oh, I…" It was dawning on her. She was frozen in place on the other side of the register. She was supposed to be ringing the old lady up.

Another customer came up behind her, his cart full.

"Just you and me?" Angela asked Michael, quietly.

He matched the volume of her voice as if they were planning something secret. "Yeah. Ms. Mead won't be there. I promise."

She looked past him again—no sign of his devilish caretaker yet. "That sounds…like a..."

The boy wasn't great at this, clearly, but he was so endearing. "Like a date. Yeah. A date. With me," he said and swallowed, hopeful.

"A...date."

It was a foreign concept. She knew theoretically what it was. She knew human culture very well—what a _date_ entailed. She could think of a handful of synonyms. A meeting, an engagement, a rendezvous, a meet-cute. She'd just never imagined it applying to her.

Michael's expression sobered quickly the longer she took to answer. "Unless you don't want to."

"No, no, Michael. It's just that…" she whispered.

He was leaning away. "I'm sorry that I asked."

Angela reached toward him without touching him, held her hand mid-air. "No, Michael wait. It's okay. I'm just… surprised, that's all."

He looked at her like she had two heads. " _Why_?"

"I've...never been asked out on a date before," she admitted.

Michael gave a disbelieving chuckle. "Really? A girl like you?"

"You're the first," Angela revealed hesitantly, not sure whether it was a bad thing or not. Angels simply didn't get asked out. Well, they weren't supposed to. Lately, a lot of inappropriate things were going on in heaven.

The boy couldn't believe it. "But...you're so nice...and-and pretty!" he said, truly meaning it.

Angela couldn't help but overcome with shyness, something she never thought she'd feel—actually she hadn't felt it before, period. It caught her off guard. She floundered, losing confidence. A tiny smirk tugged her lips.

"Okay. Sure, I'll-I'll go." She took hold of her elbow and shrugged, pushing up her fake glasses.

Michael inhaled a breath, and his chest puffed out with accomplishment—relief, too. He was grinning ear-to-ear. "Awesome," he said with a laugh.

"Okay, then," Angela laughed, too.

He touched the back of his neck. "How about I...meet you here...on Friday?"

"Okay." She laughed again. Her face was hot.

Both the old lady and the man behind Michael were watching them now, waiting. The old lady was amused more than anything. The man rolled his eyes and groaned.

"Oh, that was adorable," the lady muttered.

"Fuck this," he said and just backed his cart up and went to a different register.

"Like...after you're done with work?" Michael was saying.

Angela nodded and wrung her apron in her hands. "That-that sounds good."

"Okay, great!"

Michael was the first one to tear his attention away—to the old lady behind him. Suddenly self-conscious, he started stepping away. The lady _aww_ 'd.

"I gotta go get the rest of these groceries on this list before Ms. Mead…" He lifted up a folded piece of paper.

"Yeah, go. I'm so sorry, ma'am." Angela finally started to ring her up. "Go ahead. Finish your shopping, Michael."

He briefly glanced at the lady before back at Angela. "See you Friday!"

She was still red in the face, smiling coyly at him. "See you!" she returned. Her faint chuckle died when she looked at the lady, who titled her head.

"You both are just _precious_ ," she crooned.

"Heh." Angela gulped, her hands moving swiftly over the scanner. Past the top of her glasses, she watched Michael disappear with his cart through the aisles. It took the angel the next ten or so minutes to process what had happened.

The old lady recounted the story of how she'd met her late husband. They had been fourteen, still in school, and they married when they were eighteen. And she assured Angela that that boy—Michael—really liked her. She could tell, you see. He had really put it all out there. He didn't even have to admit it aloud. It was his body language. There was something there. A spark. Definitely a spark.

She told Angela that she seemed to like him too, only Angela quickly assured the old lady that it was nothing of that sort. She liked Michael as a friend. He was a sweet boy. After handing the lady her long receipt, which she had to fold thrice, Angela braced herself on the counter. She took a moment to breathe and ask herself what she'd gotten into.

"Angela," she said, under her breath. "This is going too far."

Part of her thought that she should've already reported herself to Zachariah, to tell him of her progress. Regardless of the fact that he had wanted nothing to do with this mission in the first place. Just to report to someone. She was flying solo here. She had no idea what she was doing.

Was she too friendly with Michael? Was he getting the wrong idea? Was she falling for his...innocence?

It wasn't in her nature to judge. It wasn't in her character to be mean or cruel. She didn't know how another angel would act in her place but simply striking him down hadn't ever been an option, not in her mind.

She still thought that he could be saved.

Another customer appeared with a cart. Halfway through ringing them up, the lights in the store began to flicker, as if the power was about to go out, or there was a surge. Outside, it was sunny.

Shortly after, there was a scream heard.

She wasn't able to get to Michael in time. It didn't take long for the police to get there, either. Someone had called them because the butcher had been stabbed. Ms. Mead was screaming that Michael was innocent. Two officers had to restrain her, keep her back as Michael was put in handcuffs.

Angela pushed her way through the crowd forming inside the grocery store. Another officer didn't let her pass through. Michael had tears streaming down his face. He tried to fight his way out of the cuffs to no avail.

"...anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law…"

"Let him go, you sons of bitches!" Mead hollered.

Angela met his eyes across the floor as they pushed him through the exit. For a split moment, time came to a halt, and she saw in him something that she hadn't seen before.

Guiltless anger. Those were tears of fury. They burned in his gaze.

She knew he _had_ done something. His expression was dark and full of seething. He didn't look sorry this time. Something, or someone, had provoked him, and this time, Angela hadn't been able to stop him.

His invitation to the movies that Friday was forgotten.

"Michael—do _not_ say anything," Mead yelled after Michael. "Do not say a word to those cocksuckers!"

They disappeared outside while several more cops kept people back from the crime scene at the other end of the store. The place was in a frenzy after that. It didn't help that some recorded the arrest on their phones with morbid curiosity. It was disgusting. Angela, being an employee, managed to get a good look at the killed man by slipping past the frantic manager.

The butcher had been one of several butchers who worked there. It had only been him that day. He lay behind the counter with five stab wounds, one, in particular, being located in the groin. The fatal one had been his head. If he hadn't died instantly, maybe she could've saved him.

Angela was wrong—so wrong about Michael.

She disappeared before anyone noticed she was gone.

###

The black vintage Mercedes drove away. Angela had missed it and the man who had taken Michael away. She had been late due to her own indecision. Human law could keep a suspect for 72 hours, and she hadn't planned to bail him out, but she had made a plan to speak with him. She came to the Los Angeles police station, dressed in a suit, set on posing as his public defense lawyer.

She hadn't expected Michael to be gone. Inside the station, there was a frenzy as he was found missing and the cop guarding him was found dead. She came outside to find Ms. Mead yelling, "Hail the new world!" like a raging lunatic under the streaming hot sun.

The black car turned the corner.

"Where did he go?" Angela demanded.

Mead spun around, doing a double take. The girl looked nothing like she always did at her shitty, minimum-wage job. She looked like someone else entirely with that briefcase in her hand.

"You!" Mead didn't even address her by her name. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Angela rounded on her, unperturbed by the swearing. "Where did he go?" she repeated, patience lost.

The older woman sneered at her indignantly, fists clenched. "My boy is on the path to his future! He is going to make me proud! And you, you little _bitch-_ " She raised a finger right in her face. Angela jerked away from it. "You are never going to see him again."

"He killed that man," Angela said darkly. "You were there."

"I didn't see it." Ms. Mead trembled furiously. "But damn right Michael did. Served that bigot for discriminating against me. Michael was defending me. My boy was _protecting_ me."

"Protecting?" Angela said, aghast.

"That boy loves me, and I love him. He is going to change the world. You hear me? He's going to remake it in Satan's image. But you-you _cunt_ wouldn't know anything about that. You and everyone else in this fucking cesspool." She threw her arms up at either side, indicating the world. "You're going to _die_ , burn in the fire!"

Anyone else would've called the old bat crazy for spouting such insane shit, but Angela leveled her with a severe look, deadpan. The fact that she wasn't calling Mead out on what she had said allowed Angela an advantage. Mead hesitated briefly.

"No one is going to die," the girl said slowly—so that there was no shadow of a doubt, or so help her God. "But I am going to stop him."

"You?" Mead scoffed, short of spitting on her. "Hah! You are no one!"

Narrowing her eyes, Angela straightened in place, towering over the other woman. There was a bright flash in the former's gaze. It bloomed white in the center of her pupils and glowed, for a moment, contrasting starkly with the brown color of her irises. Mead all but gasped and froze.

"Who-who are you?" she stuttered, not so threatening after all.

Her eyes returning to normal, the girl simply watched her, chin raised. "I'm an angel of the Lord," she said in a tone that would've sent shivers down anyone's spin. Mead was no different. She almost raised her hands to cover her face.

She overcame with a pallor so white that it looked like she was going to pass out, the way a person would get if they came face to face with an apparition or something else that they'd never consider existing. She stared at Angela—the angel approached her again. Mead tried to stagger away, but Angela lifted her fingers toward her face.

"You-you're not—you are not real-" Mead blubbered.

"And it'll stay that way," was all Angela said. The tips of her fingers touched her forehead.

Mead's world went bright.

When her vision cleared and she could see again, she stood alone behind the Los Angeles police station and looked around, confused. There was something missing, like something had just happened. Only she didn't know what it was. It hung on the tip of her mind, a shell of a memory, like the lingering warmth on a bed when a person left it.

All memory of the girl who had come to pose as Michael's lawyer had been wiped, particularly the part where she'd revealed her true nature. Angela was left simply as the girl who worked at the grocery store, unimportant now, forgotten, put away to the back of the woman's mind. A nobody.

Ms. Mead looked back the way that car had gone and smiled again, her eyes tearing up. She stopped them before they overflowed, wiped them with her fingers.

"Boy is going to make me proud someday," she said.

###

Angela watched the circular structure for several days. In the middle of the barren desert, outside of Los Angeles, beneath the dry, dusty earth was the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men. The location could've fooled anyone. The mailbox itself was a few miles away, and the drive was not a drive as much as it was a dirt path with tire tracks.

A bunch of warlocks would've sniffed out a being of divine origin. Angela couldn't just walk in there. She hoped to see some sort of traffic in and out of the place but people scarcely left or entered the underground structure.

Once, a tall smoking man with a five o'clock shadow went for a Costco run and came back with a truck full of groceries while finishing up a chicken bake. He swore when he dripped grease on himself and complained about having his suit dry cleaned again.

He glanced over his shoulder, as if sensing someone or something, but in the following moment, he shrugged it off and went inside.

She didn't see Michael, but he was in there. He couldn't have gone anywhere. The school must've spanned a good way below ground. It was impenetrable—which probably had been the point.

While sitting at a distance, watching between gnarled Joshua trees and cactuses, a coyote approached Angela and kept her company for a short time. Unfortunately, she didn't have any food, so in his own way, he said _fuck you_ and ran off.

She got an idea the fourth night in and lay down on the ground, looking up at the starry sky. This far from the city, nothing obscured the atmosphere. A light or two shot across the sky—shooting stars. The air was cool, for a change. Angela watched the scenery. It was heavenly. Indeed, heaven was up there, concealed to the naked eye.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply in an out, a meditation of sorts, and let herself be swallowed by the night. Crickets chirped. A lone coyote howled somewhere, perhaps her temporary friend. An owl hooted.

She left her mind.

###

Below the desert earth, within the school, inside one of the many rooms slept Michael. His room was dimly lit by candles and warmed by the fireplace, which crackled softly, spilling its flickering glow across the marble floor.

It was the same room where Angela had found him in present day. However, this was the past, and the place where Ms. Venable lay dead was spotless. Young Michael was sleeping soundly—until there was a light weight on the end of his bed and his eyes fluttered open. Someone was in the room with him.

Whoever it was had come in without a sound, like a mouse, or maybe a ghost. Ariel Augustus had said nothing about ghosts being in the school, but maybe he just forgot to tell him. Michael wasn't afraid, however. He'd once lived with a house full of spirits, and they had been the ones afraid of him.

Slowly, he pushed the covers off him. The weight by his feet didn't go away. If it was someone there to kill him, he'd easily deal with them. It hadn't been hard before, it wouldn't be hard now. As he sat up, he saw the outline of a woman. He knew it was a woman because her frame was thin and there was long hair curtaining her head, cascading down her back. She wasn't looking at him.

For some reason, without even seeing her face, he knew who it was.

"Angela?" he said, ceasing the silence.

The angel opened her eyes and turned her head to regard him over her shoulder. "Michael," she said upon a faint sigh.

He planted his feet on the floor and got up, cautiously taking a step toward her. He hadn't forgotten about her, but he had in fact thought that they'd never see each other again.

"Am I...dreaming?"

"Yes," she said. She watched as he padded around the bed to stand before her. She wore a simple pale dress—like an ethereal woman in white.

He wore pajamas that were dark, issued by the school. All the boys wore them. They had a collar and neat buttons going down the front.

"Why am I dreaming about you?" he asked, knowing that this wasn't the making of his own mind.

"I had to see you," Angela said. Her hands were folded on her lap. She looked ghostly, but certainly not scary.

Michael's expression shifted slightly. Most of his apprehension went away. Her words had made the corners of his lips jerk in a faint smile. "Why?" he still asked.

Angela, however, looked like she was frowning. "Because for a moment, I lost you," she said.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I haven't forgotten you."

"Neither have I."

Emotion entered his voice then. It was the same sound that she had heard after she'd stopped him from killing those kids outside of the store. "Your face...the last time I saw you. You were... _frightened_."

She shook her head and dismissed his assumption before any guilt could take hold him. "I'm not afraid."

He did not understand. " _Why_?"

Angela's tone went flat. "Because I'm simply not."

Nevertheless, Michael sensed her disapproval and had the sudden need to justify himself. He looked down at his hands, which he raised.

"There's a power inside of me." He glanced up at her in earnest. "This place. It's a school for people to learn. I'm going to learn how to control it."

Angela ignored this. "Why did you kill that man, Michael?" she asked calmly.

He stared at her. She effectively had him floundering. He'd never seen this side of her. It was like he was going to be punished afterward. He opened and closed his mouth.

"That…ma-" he began at last, then quickly said, "I was just protecting someone. Ms. Mead. I was defending her. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I just… He was being so mean to her."

If this was someone else, anyone else, he wouldn't have wasted time explaining himself and would have just killed them. Ariel had instilled a dangerous confidence in Michael, which was growing by the day. The fact that the man had told him he saw potential in him was enough to start quelling that guilt Michael had felt before.

But this was Angela, not just anybody. The look on her fair face had him _needing_ to explain.

"So you killed him," she said.

Michael clenched his fists at his sides. "Not intentionally."

"He's dead," she reminded coldly.

Michael matched her demeanor. His own voice went emotionless, dipped low. "I didn't touch those knives."

She was patient—even if this time she had forced herself a little. She studied him and saw the same hardness she'd felt from him when he was arrested. He was going to stand by what he'd done. She just wasn't going to feed the fire that came along with it.

So she let out a breath. "Tell me what happened," she put her hand beside her, his gaze jumped to it, "Come sit beside me, Michael. Just tell me what happened. I need to know."

He looked cautious. He stared at the empty spot on the end of the bed as if he was debating on whether to acquiesce her request. His chin was raised in vague defiance. He held her gaze for a long moment and she didn't break eye contact.

Finally, he moved and sat down beside her. "That man was being mean to Ms. Mead," he repeated feverishly. "I told him it wasn't very nice of him… And the next thing I knew I…" He looked at his hands again, which he held on his thighs, palms up. He flexed his fingers.

She had to prompt him. "What, Michael?"

It seemed like it was hard to describe as he searched the lines in his skin for an answer. "It...came over me."

Angela swallowed inwardly. "What did?"

He looked back at her, his blue eyes reflecting the fire and candles. They were so clear—like ice mirroring a sunset. She could slip and fall through the depths of his pupils.

"Like when those guys were trying to take your bike, I just… I just got _angry_ , and this-this _power_ I can't control... The next thing I knew, it's all I could feel. And...it did what I was thinking." He seemed to sense her trepidation, even though she was trying to hide it as she listened, for then he was assuring her, "These warlocks—they are going to help me."

"I wanted to be the one to help you," she admitted.

He searched her face, tilted his head. "How? You don't have any power."

"Yes, I do," she said with such conviction that he believed her. He didn't question her. After all, she was appearing to him in a dream.

His eyebrows furrowed curiously. He had no idea what it was that he sensed about her. It was what she drew him in with. Whatever it was—strange and sublime. Angela half thought that he would outright ask her—who she was. Instead, darkness seeped into his countenance.

"Where were you?" His words were bitter. "Where were you when I was in jail?"

This broke her heart. She couldn't prevent it. He tugged on her heartstrings. She saw the hurt. It could've been a trick, but she was falling right for it. "Michael, I was… I was trying to decide what to do."

"With what?" he questioned.

"With you."

He tensed. "With me? What do you mean?"

She answered after a beat. "I thought I had made a mistake."

He was stony. "What kind of mistake?" he asked quietly.

The air in the room felt heavy all of a sudden. The fire in the fireplace burned brighter. Angela's gaze didn't waver. "When we became friends," she said.

Michael looked like a little boy and the man he was quickly becoming—all at the same time. His hair might've still been a mop, but his eyes had a sharpness in them. "Do you regret it?"

Her answer was most important. She knew this very well.

She put her hand over one of his. "No." He looked down at it. His face softened.

He covered her hand with his other. The action was tender coming from him. Her eyes fell to their touch. She hesitated, not saying anything else. His fingers curled around the back of her hand. Any suspicion he might've had during their conversation had vanished at once. They looked at each other for a long time, remaining on the end of his bed in the otherwise silent room.

Michael seemed to be memorizing every detail of her face, as if he was trying to find her soul and study it beneath her flesh—her deep eyes; her long, slim nose; the small beauty mark on her left cheek and the one above her mouth on the right side. His gaze stayed for a moment longer on her mouth, and he was lifting his hand to her jaw. He ghosted his thumb over the soft divet of her chin.

"Michael," she whispered, very still. His eyes smoldered, cat-like.

"Hm?" he hummed. His hand on his lap turned over to capture her own before she took it away. He weaved his fingers through hers.

Next, his thumb dragged very carefully beneath her bottom lip. She closed her eyes. His finger settled at the corner of her mouth, the others gathering along her cheek. She felt his breath on her face. Then she opened her eyes again—his own mouth was feather light over her lips. He pressed her a kiss.

It went against everything.

Angela deftly slipped out of Michael's touch, pulling him out of his reverie. She stood and stepped away, and he frowned with what looked like disappointment. She gave him a weak smile.

"Where are you going? Are you leaving?" he asked, crestfallen.

"I won't be far," she assured him.

He too stood, as if to go after her. "Will I see you again?"

Angela steeled herself behind an impassive exterior. "If you would like to."

Michael reached for her. "I would," he said fiercely. He wanted to touch her again. He moved his hand to her shoulder.

It passed right through it. She was no longer corporeal. He moved his hand again, right through her middle. He felt nothing but air, shocked. And right before his eyes, she faded, gone. She left him alone again.

Outside of the entrance to the school, Angela woke up with a gasp and sat where she had last been, on the desert ground. She didn't notice something moving on her leg, crawling upward. She stared at the circular maze far ahead of her, only realizing something was on her when it reached her chest.

Looking down, she saw it was a scorpion. It was pale—not a dream. Small and deadly. Calmly, she took it by the tail before it could strike her with its hook. It wriggled angrily. She set it down beside her on the ground. Then she rose to her feet, dusting herself off.

The night still had a long way to go. She'd take a walk, perhaps, and think, making a wide berth around the school so as not to be detected. She had no choice but to leave Michael where he was, to leave him under the guidance of those warlocks. Unfortunately, they had no idea who they had admitted into their numbers. They were so in over their heads that they didn't realize it yet. But they would—she was sure of it. They'd realize that Michael was far more powerful than anyone they'd had ever seen.


End file.
